Whiskey
by Menthol Pixie
Summary: The first, and last, time John Winchester hits Sam.
1. Chapter 1

**Whiskey**

**Summary: The first, and last, time John Winchester hits Sam.**

**A/N: I didn't think I'd ever write something from John's POV – it seemed like far too much of a challenge. And then this idea came to me (I blame pregnancy hormones) and this was written. In fact, I finished it just before my waters broke (Healthy baby girl – a month old now, which shows how busy I've been, it's taken this long to get this typed up and edited.) Anyway, I think this came out halfway decent.**

**Warning: Some swearing. Excuse my unimaginative title. I'm sleep deprived.**

XXX

It was a week before Halloween and Sam was sulking.

John gulped his fifth shot of whiskey and glowered down at his research, determinedly pretending to be oblivious to his youngest son's ill-tempered and obnoxious slamming of books onto wood as he set out his homework on the small coffee table, cursing himself for booking a single-room motel. If only Sam had a bedroom to play out his tantrum in instead of grating on John's nerves out in the open.

Dean at 14 had never had this much attitude, John reminisced bitterly. He'd never had trouble with Dean. He just couldn't understand why Sam had to push every little issue and turn it into a battleground. So what if their leaving town meant the kid would miss some silly Halloween party? There would be others, right?

John pushed away the niggling thought reminding him that Sam rarely got invited to parties with another shot of whiskey. His youngest didn't slot in immediately the way Dean did, took time to build up friendships and was more focussed on schoolwork than spending his free time socializing, but there wasn't much John could do about that. Sam just had to learn to accept that things were the way they were for a reason. This wasn't the first time he's be uprooting the teen just as he began to fit in and it wouldn't be the last. That was the life that went with hunting and any other week maybe he'd sympathize some more, prehaps he'd even go so far as to push their leaving back until after the party, but now...

It was nine days until the anniversary of Mary's death. There were some electrical storms a few towns over and the need to hunt, to run, was pounding through his veins, almost rivaling his annual need to drink.

John glared hard into his bottle of amber liquid, catching a flash of Mary's face surrounded by flames that had him gripping his cup hard enough that he almost felt the glass creak.

Oh, John knew alright that he was particularly hard to get along with at this time of year. He knew the viscious need for revenge that burned inside him coupled with alcohol was a dangerous combination, left his mood stretched thin and ready to snap at the slightest provocation. Even Dean kept his mouth shut and the rest of himself scarce during this time. Why Sam couldn't just fall in line and make a damn effort to keep the peace was beyond John.

He wasn't foolish enough to believe that he was alone in his grief (though he felt achingly so). Dean's silence and growing tendency to find himself a pool game or a girl or, John suspected, a few drinks of his own, wasn't only for the sake of getting out of John's way, and Sam, when he wasn't acting like a whinging brat, was particularly skilled in the time honoured teenage tradition of brooding around this date.

It was selfish and unfair, John knew, but sometimes he found himself resenting Sam's involvement in the whole process. The kid mourned a woman who wasn't even a memory to him, just a photograph and a name. At six months old, he hadn't even had time to know Mary. Sam would never understand what losing her had actually been like. John suspected, when alcohol allowed the bitter thoughts to fester, that Sam's grief had more to do with the loss of his precious _normal_ life, the one he could have had if Mary hadn't died burning above his cot.

John snorted furiously to himself. Here he sat, mourning the love of his life while his youngest sulked a few feet away over the loss of Halloween parties. Kid needed to grow the hell up already.

"Have you learnt that exocism yet?" John asked, pouring another dash of whiskey into his glass, careful to keep his words crisp and unslurred. The last thing he needed was Sam insolently rolling his eyes and making snide comments about his coherensy.

He glanced up from his drink in time to see Sam irritably push his bangs out of his face, eyes fixed on the book in front of him.

"I'll do it when I finish this," he said, blatantly disregarding what John knew the kid had recognised as an order.

"Do it now," John said shortly, glaring at the teen.

Sam let out an exhale through clenched teeth that raised the hairs on the back of John's neck. He downed his whiskey.

"I need to have this finished for tomorrow," Sam said stubbornly.

"I told you to learn that exorcism tonight," John said through his own gritted teeth. If Sam thought he was going to win this one he was in for a wake up call.

Sam ignored the glare, and the tone, letting his hair fall back over his eyes as if to block John out completely. John felt the whiskey swirl hot in his stomach as his temper rose.

"You need a haircut."

Sam shrugged dismissively.

John lost it.

He wasn't even sure what his plan was until after he's grabbed hold of Sam's arm, yanking him up from where he knelt in front of the coffee table. He was vaguely aware of Sam's books scattered on the floor, his own whiskey glass broken on the table, as he dragged Sam towards the bathroom.

"What the hell?" Sam burst out indignantly, "Dad, stop! Let me go!"

Sam shoved at him, twisting and digging his heels into the floorboards, even resorting to defensive moves John had taught him, but John _had_ taught him and he knew how to block them even though his head was spinning with cheap booze. Anyway, John was twice Sam's size and it only took one hand to shove Sam into the small bathroom and up against the sink, ignoring his son's protests.

He saw Sam's face in the mirror as his free hand found the electric razor, his other hand reaching up to fist in Sam's too-long hair while he used his bulk to keep Sam pinned against the sink. He saw the exact moment that Sam realized what was about to happen, his expression switching from pissed off to horrified.

"No! Dad, don't, please!" His arms came up, fingers frantically scrabbling at the hand John had tangled in his hair.

John felt a flare of satisfaction at the total loss of angry defiance in Sam's voice. He pulled Sam's head up sharply, making sure he could see in the mirror. Let the kid watch as he lost his hair as punishment, that would take him down a few notches. He wouldn't be so quick with the back-chat and disregarding of John's authority then.

"I'll learn the exorcism!" Sam protested desperately. "Dad, _don't_!"

John flicked the razor on, it's buzzing fueling his determination. The kid needed to be reminded who was in charge, needed to learn how to follow orders without question and outright disobedience. The kid -

"Omph!"

elbowed him in the stomach.

When he looked back, John thought it might have been more accidental than deliberate, an attempt to shove away from the sink rather than an actual attack, but in the bathroom, the whiskey running liquid rage through his brain, it was the last fucking straw. John saw red and before he had a chance to think or calm himself, he'd backed up enough to spin Sam around to face him and landed a blow to the side of his youngest son's head.

Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if he'd been sober (who was he kidding? If he'd been sober he never would have been in the bathroom to begin with) but he didn't pull his punch as much as he wanted, the alcohol making him sloppy and the bathroom was small enough that the force of it sent Sam spinning into the wall.

John watched in horror as Sam crumpled to the tiled floor, stunned, and it was a long moment before he could bring himself to act.

"Aw, hell," he mumbled, feeling the whiskey-anger drain out of him in an instant. He moved to crouch in front of the fallen boy, hoping the damage wasn't as bad as he feared, but Sam's eyes widened impossibly and he threw his arms up over his head, pressing back against the sink, obviously expecting another punch or maybe the razor John realized he was still holding, buzzing in his hand.

"No, Dad, I'm sorry! Please, don't -"

And because John understood he'd just lost the right to even the smallest of mercies, that was when Dean spoke up from behind him.

"What the hell is going on?"

If John hadn't already figured out that he'd let himself get too drunk he definitely knew it now. There was no other way Dean would have managed to enter the motel room and sneak up on him undetected. Constant vigilence, keep his family safe. Well, he had certainly made a mess of that. Not only had he let his guard down – Dean could have been _anything_, after all – he'd...

"God, Sammy, I'm sorry," he forced out. He couldn't bring himself to turn around and see the look on Dean's face. The look on Sam's was already too much. He thumbed the razor off with suddenly shaking hands.

"Get away from him."

Dean's tone left no room for argument and the fight had left John the second his fist collided with Sam's head. Numbly, he stepped aside, bracing himself against the shower stall.

Dean slid past, eyeing him warily, and dropped to one knee in front of Sam.

"Hey, kiddo, you okay?" Dean tilted Sam's head up, gently prying Sam's hand away from his face. John caught a glimpse of the angry red mark, destined to turn into a spectacular black eye, before he had to look away.

Sam's wide eyes stuttered from Dean to John and back again before he nodded slowly and let Dean pull him to his feet.

"Go get your bag," Dean said quietly. "Pack some clothes, okay?"

Sam hesitated, looking to John again as if expecting an argument, but John had been struck speechless, the walls spinning a little. He pressed harder against the shower stall as Sam slipped past him.

"Dean." John found his tongue loosening as his oldest stalked past him too. "Don't..."

He wanted to say, 'Don't leave. I can't lose you both as well. Not this week. Not ever' but maybe he'd just lost the right to say that. He followed Dean out of the bathroom.

"I didn't mean to..." he started instead, trying to explain, but Dean held up a hand to stop him. Over Dean's shoulder he could see Sam shoving clothes into his duffel.

"I know. I know, Dad." Dean ran a weary hand through his hair and even through the murky whiskey still sloshing against his eyeballs John could see how tired his oldest looked, how much older he seemed than 18 years. "We'll come back. Just... you can't do this. I know that it's... hard, but... Christ, Dad, you could've really hurt him."

The whiskey was turning sour in his stomach, replaying the image of Sammy hitting the wall and falling to the floor.

"Every year, Dad," Dean continued, the words coming out in a rush, like he'd been holding them back for a long time. "Every year, it's... God, it's putting you to bed when you're too drunk to walk, cleaning up your puke, screaming matches over nothing or you rushing into hunts like you don't care if you..." Dean swallowed. "It's got to stop, Dad."

John stood defeated in the bathroom doorway.

"Dean?"

Sam's hesitant voice had Dean turning away. He joined Sam at the foot of his bed, taking the kids duffel from him and slinging his own bag over his shoulder.

"We'll be back," Dean said flatly, not quite meeting John's eye. "Next week."

John wanted to ask where they would go, if Dean was alright for cash, or tell him to remember to lay down salt, but old familiar words were forcing themselves out of his clogged throat.

"Watch out for Sammy."

He saw Dean's back stiffen as he placed a hand on Sam's shoulder to steer him out of the motel room.

"I always do," Dean said tightly, and then both boys were gone and John was alone with his grief and his whiskey and his regrets.

**END**


	2. Alternate Ending

**A/N: Okay, so I couldn't help myself. But I'm going with the defence that it seemed as though some people wanted to read this.**

**This picks up right after John hits Sam.**

**Dean doesn't show up, and John doesn't back down.**

**XXX**

It wasn't the hardest punch he'd ever thrown (thank God), the alcohol making him sloppy, but he felt it connect before he knew what he was doing and the force was enough to send Sam spinning into the bathroom wall. He hit it with a thud and crumpled to the tiled floor.

There was a moment, a seconds pause, where regret stilled his movements. Hurting his boy was not his intention, but he couldn't back down now. This was _important_. A soldier who couldn't follow orders was a dead soldier soon enough, and Sam needed to learn before he found himself on the wrong end of a bad hunt.

Sam blinked dazedly on the floor, one hand hovering over his face as he stared wide-eyed up at John, stunned motionless.

John steadied himself. Another lesson: Never let your guard down.

Grabbing a hold of Sam's t-shirt, it was barely any effort to yank him forward. Sam yelped in surprise as he was sent sprawling on his stomach.

"Dad-" he gasped, trying to push himself up but John threw a leg over him, straddling him and planting himself on Sam's back.

Sam tried to roll, scrabbling to try to put distance between himself and the buzzing of the razor, but John refused to be moved.

"Dad, I'm sorry!" Sam burst out desperately, covering his head with his hands, trying to block John's access to his hair. "Please don't, don't!"

John set his jaw, steeling himself against Sam's pleading, and used his free hand to capture Sam's wrists to pin them to the floor in front of him.

"You brought this on yourself."

Sam screamed and bucked, but his weight was no match, and John lowered the razor and sheared off a long strip of dark hair by Sam's temple.

"Dad!" Sam screamed, trying to twist his head away. "Stop!"

John shaved another jagged strip next to the first one, shaking the loose hair to the floor by his son's face. He watched Sam's face crumple at the loss. (As if the boy knew anything about loss.)

The fresh burst of anger spurred him on, accidentally pressing too hard and grazing Sam's scalp on the next strip. Sam cried out and bucked again. John growled and pressed the heel of his hand hard against his son's head.

"Stay still!" he barked.

Sam let out a sob, but obediently stilled, cheek pressed against the tile.

John turned the razor on the base of Sam's neck, scraping upwards from the side he could reach, curving it around Sam's ear. Clumps of hair fell away, pooling around Sam's head, and the boy squeezed his eyes shut, sobs shaking his shoulders.

The razor buzzed. John risked taking his hand from Sam's wrists to tug on the remaining hair at the back of Sam's neck, pulling his head up. Sam seemed to have given up fighting and simply moved to hide his face in his arms.

John ran the razor in short strips over Sam's forehead until there was no scrap of fringe left for him to insolently hide behind, just tiny filings of stubble, then branched out and swept it over and over the dome of his head. It snagged in the thick hair and tugged and Sam jolted with each one, hiccuping sobs accompanying the razors hum. John continued until all the hair in easy reach was spread out over the bathroom tiles, tumbling over Sam's bare arms, dark brown curls falling softly down the back of Sam's t-shirt as the teen wept.

"I hate you, I hate you," he cried, distraught, and John clenched his teeth and forcefully turned his son's head against the tile, quickly taking care of the remaining patch of hair.

Within minutes, it was over, no single strand of hair longer than a few millimetres, inches of it severed and lying limp and dark against the white tiles. John flicked the razor off and threw it aside. He pushed himself to his feet and determinedly refused to feel any pity for his boy on the floor, surrounded by scatterings of hair, even as Sam reached up a shaking hand to run over his shorn head, feeling the absolute lack of hair, and began to sob harder. Even when the light fell on Sam's face in a way that accentuated his rapidly swelling and darkening eye, John couldn't bring himself to feel remorse.

When it came down to it, if this was what it took to teach his boy to fall in line, if this was what he needed to do to keep his boy alive, so be it. He'd do it a hundred times over. He was not losing anyone else.

"Next time I tell you to do something, you do it. Have I made myself clear?" he demanded, keeping his tone cold, standing tall and imposing in the bathroom doorway.

It took a few hitching breaths before Sam managed to gasp out a 'Yessir' between sobs, arms hugging himself tightly.

John cleared his throat, suddenly tight, as he surveyed his son, a crumpled figure on the bathroom floor, carpeted with his lost locks.

"Clean this mess up," he ordered finally.

He didn't wait for Sam's reply before turning away and heading back to the kitchen. He needed another drink.

**END**


	3. Alternate Endings Ending

**Whiskey, Alt. Ending Continuation**

**Summary: Now Dean shows up.**

**A/N: Seeing as it's my birthday today, I thought I would give you guys a present. Everyone wanted to see Dean's reaction, so here it is.**

**Warning: Dean is angry. He swears a fair bit.**

XXX

Dean felt his good mood vanish as soon as he opened the door and saw John, planted at the kitchen table with the whiskey bottle visible over his shoulder, the muscles in his back tense.

Dean knew he didn't fully understand his father's grief and that his own sense of loss didn't come close. He tried to help, to make things easier at this time of year, but these late night solitary drinking sessions seemed to start earlier and last longer every year. It was getting out of hand and he couldn't think of a damn thing to stop it.

"Hey, Dad," he said quietly, to announce his presence before John got spooked. Once, last year, he took Dad by surprise when he walked in and found himself against the wall with a knife at his throat.

He stepped over the salt line and locked the door behind him. He never knew what to expect at this time of night, at this time of year. John might want him to sit down and cry over photos with him, or maybe he'll want to tell stories about Mary, or maybe he'll be furiously and drunkenly poring over old books, reading things he's read a thousand times before in a desperate attempt to finish the one hunt he couldn't solve.

John didn't react at all though, just sat with his back turned, hand firmly around his glass. When Dean stepped forward he tossed the whiskey back and set the glass down on the table far harder than was necessary.

Dean saw the shattered glass then, spread across the table, glimmering faintly in the meagre light of the single naked bulb that hung from the kitchen ceiling.

"Dad," he said in alarm, but a few quick steps forward showed that there was no injury. He could see John's face now, expression hard and tight. His eyes didn't leave the whiskey bottle.

Dean's sigh hitched halfway through as he turned and his eyes landed on Sam's school books. Two were on the floor, one open and upside down, pages crumpled beneath it and another hung half off the coffee table while a broken pen leaked ink into the paper.

Sam wouldn't leave his books like that. He damn near worshipped the things.

Dean spun around, back to the statue of grief that was his father. "Where's Sam?"

John's jaw clenched. He moved to pour himself another drink. "Bathroom," he grunted.

Something was very wrong. Dean felt it in every step he took down the small hallway to the bathroom door.

"Sammy?" he called anxiously, pressing himself against the door as he (just) suppressed the urge to barge on in. "Kid, you okay?"

Sam didn't answer and Dean jammed his ear against the wood. With the sound of crying barely audible any thought of restraint vanished as he fumbled to shove the door open.

He didn't know what he was expecting (he just knew something was wrong. Sammy-radar.) but this... It wasn't this.

Sam sat on the floor with his back pressed against the shower stall, knees brought up to his chest, elbows on his knees and forearms crossed over his head, in this small Sammy ball. He didn't look up when Dean burst through the door, sobbing into his jeans, and his hair...

"Jesus, what the hell happened?" Dean asked, unable to keep the shock from his voice. He crossed the bathroom in two small steps and knelt down by his brother amongst the, shit, amongst the scatterings of hair on the tiles, trying to gently tug Sam's arms down.

"Don't," Sam sobbed, pulling away and trying to curl into a tighter ball.

"You're bleeding," Dean pointed out dumbly, eyeing the graze towards the side of Sam's – _Jesus_ – Sam's shaved head.

The silence dragged as Dean knelt there helplessly, interrupted only by Sam's hitched breaths.

"Sammy... fuck, talk to me, kid, please."

Sam didn't answer but moved an arm to swipe over his eyes and -

"What the fuck?" Dean exclaimed, taking matters into his own hands and forcing Sam's head up so he could get a better look at, yup, that was definitely the beginnings of a spectacular black eye, skin starting to darken, swollen tight.

There was some sort of invisible connection between seeing Sam hurt and Dean's adrenal gland (there must be) because it was pumping before and now it's freaking _racing_.

"Who the fuck did this?" Dean demanded, still holding Sam's chin, even as the kid tried to hide his face again. "Tell me who the fuck did this, Jesus, what the _fuck_?"

Sam flinched as Dean's palm smacked the tile, bloodshot eyes that held remnants of terror and stark devastation looking up at him.

"I didn't learn the exorcism," he whispered finally, voice wrecked.

It took Dean a long moment to understand. He almost asked, 'Who the fuck cares if you didn't learn a stupid exorcism?' but then it clicked. He knew exactly who cared. He could barely believe it.

"_Dad_ did this?" he asked, horrified, eyes moving over the hair scattered on the bathroom tile, the purpling eye and the fuzz left on Sam's head.

The kid lost what little composure he'd managed to gain as he followed Dean's gaze, pulling away and dropping his head into his hands.

"He was so angry," Sam sobbed, "He, he hit me and, held me down, and, and..."

"Hey, shh, it's okay." Dean clasped Sam's shoulders tightly. It wasn't okay though. He was still reeling from the mental image of his father hurting Sam, holding the kid down. Jesus Christ, what the hell? And Sam's _hair_.

"It's not okay!" Sam cried, shoving Dean away so that he landed on his ass on the tiles. "It's not okay."

His hands went up to cover the stubble on his head, sobbing harder, and Dean felt his shock turn to anger.

He pushed himself to his feet and let his rage carry him from the bathroom and down the hallway. He didn't stop to think and once he's reached the kitchen, he grabbed the whiskey bottle from the table and flung it at the wall.

Glass shattered and crashed to the floor, whiskey dripping down the faded wallpaper and spraying over his boots.

"What the hell-" John started, furious as he pushed himself to his feet, but Dean didn't give him the chance to continue.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he bellowed. "How could you do that to Sam?"

John swayed, planting his hands on the tabletop. "Still upset, is he?"

"Upset?" Dean scoffed. "Try _devastated_. Try _terrified_. He's got a fucking shiner that covers half his face. You fucking hit him, fucking held him down and cut his hair off. What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?"

At this, John drew himself up to his full height. "He has to learn! A soldier who can't follow orders is a dead soldier! He-"

"He's your _son_!"

"He's a liability! None of my punishments stick. Maybe now he'll have some sense."

"Yeah, you sure knocked some sense into him, didn't you, Dad?" Dean spat. "All because he didn't learn one stupid exorcism."

"Don't you dare call it stupid," John warned, voice icy. "That exorcism could save his life one day, could save _your_ life one day! You think I'm going to risk losing you because of teenage rebellion? He needed to be taught a lesson."

"You think that was a lesson?" Dean shook his head in disgust. "That's _assault_, Dad. That's _abuse_."

John eyed him, almost challenging, but Dean thought he saw a flicker of remorse in his face. Not enough though.

"You're pathetic," Dean spat, then turned sharply and headed for the bed, picking up the duffel that sat by it and began shoving in clothes.

"What are you doing?" John demanded, a looming presence behind him.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Dean closed his hand around a simple black beanie, then tugged the duffels zip closed. "You think I'd stay here? You think I'd let you anywhere near Sam? Jesus, you really are smashed."

"You have no right-"

"I have every right!" Dean yelled, spinning to face his father. "I'm the one who raised him. He's my fucking kid and I'm taking him far away from you!"

He didn't wait for John's reply, simply reached behind him for the duffel and slung it over his shoulder, marching down the hallway.

John didn't follow, so maybe he still had some sense. Dean took a breath before entering the bathroom, in a vain attempt to calm himself, but the sight of Sammy still in the same position on the floor worked better. The heat rushed out of him as Sam looked up.

"We going away?" he asked quietly, eyeing the duffel bag, though he must have heard Dean yelling.

Dean swallowed past the lump in his throat. "Yeah, kid. For as long as you want."

He took the first aid kit from the bathroom cabinet before dropping to his knees before his brother. "Gotta get you cleaned up first though. Okay?" He ducked his head to meet Sam's eyes.

Sam took a shaky breath and reluctantly lowered his hands from his head.

Dean eyed the scrape, assuring himself that it was just that, a scrape, and set about cleaning the drying blood from Sam's scalp with a damp cloth. The bleeding had stopped, he noted grimly.

Sam shuddered under his ministrations, breaths hitching. Dean wanted to tell him that it would be okay but the words got stuck in his throat. He taped gauze over the wound, though it wasn't strictly necessary, hand itching to ruffle Sam's hair and tell him he was all set, like he usually did when he finished patching the kid up, but Sam's hair was carpeting the floor and Dean felt another rush of anger at his father.

Instead, he pulled the beanie he'd grabbed over Sam's head, tucking it over his ears and down the back of his neck so the evidence of John's drunken anger was hidden. Some of it, at least. The bruising was still darkening on Sam's face. Dean closed his eyes and let his forehead rest against Sam's.

Soon, he'll get up and lead Sam out the door, maybe for forever if that's what Sam wants. Maybe this night will be the last time he sees his father. He doesn't know. But he does know that this is the last time John will hurt Sam.

END


	4. Hangover

**Hangover**

(Or Whiskey Alt. Ending's Ending Wasn't Actually an Ending Because You People Keep Giving Me Ideas)

XXX

'_Dean_,' John's voice said seriously, a mound of guilt and excuses shoved into one word. The voice mail made him sound small and tinny but there was no hiding the hangover in his tone. '_Dean, look, I know things... got out of hand last night. I'm sorry. Tell Sam I'm sorry. Just... call me back when you get this. Tell me when you're coming home_.'

Dean knew his father well. He could picture him now, at the same table he sat at last night, head in his hands with his phone tucked between ear and shoulder, listening as his call went straight to voice mail, knowing that it meant Dean had purposely turned his phone off, turned Sam's phone off too and hidden it in the depths of his duffel bag. The kid didn't need John's hungover apologies right now, maybe not ever. How could John think that 'I'm sorry' would be enough? He barely even sounded regretful, just tired and worn, like this is just one more thing in his already hectic life that he now has to deal with.

Dean leant against the sink, listening to the beep that signalled the end of John's message. That was all. Things got out of hand and he's sorry, when are they coming home?

What home? Dean thought bitterly.

The bathroom was filling with steam, the running shower covering the voice mail from Sam, just in case he was listening, though Dean doubted it. Sam was... preoccupied.

He sighed, switching the phone off and setting it down on the vanity. He stripped off and climbed into the shower, his excuse for finding a private moment to listen. He wasn't sure if Sam would even notice if he stepped out of the bathroom un-showered, but the hot water did feel good. He did nothing last night that should leave him feeling this drained and stiff, just yelled and packed and tried to comfort, but last night... He wished he could wash it away, that the hot running water could do something about his drunken father, could fix Sammy's black eye and buzzed hair, or at least give him a clue as to what to do next.

(What the hell was he going to do next?)

He shut off the water. He had no idea what they'd do, but Sam didn't need a plan. The kid needed his big brother to be confident, he needed to know that he was going to be looked after. Whatever happened next, Dean could at least do that.

He dried off and dressed quickly, breathing in the humid air. It made his chest feel damp and heavy. He wiped the layer of condensation from the screen of his phone and shoved it in his back pocket where it sat silent and waiting to record any other useless apologies from John.

He exited the bathroom in a billowing gust of steam, something he'd always thought looked cool but he took no pleasure from it now, barely even noticed it. Sam was where Dean had left him, sitting at the dangerously wobbly table the motel had come equipped with, absently swirling his spoon in the now-soggy bowl of cereal Dean had instructed him to eat before he stole away to the bathroom just to hear Dad's voice. His father had always been a source of stability – as much as their lives allowed – and now he was gone. They were alone.

Sam was doing far too much thinking for Dean's liking, he could see it in the small crease of the kid's forehead, the faraway look in his eyes. He took a deep breath, preparing to throw himself into the line of fire just so that Sam wouldn't have to be by himself with his thoughts. They had barely talked last night. Exhausted and stunned, they'd fallen into bed and lay awake in silence for hours, pretending not to know that the other was awake too.

"So how you doing, kid?" Dean asked finally, dropping into the spare chair on the other side of the table. He rested an elbow on the surface and the table rocked to the left, a slosh of milk leaping over the side of Sam's bowl.

Sam looked up at him without raising his head. His eye had darkened dramatically overnight, swollen fat and a deep purple-red colour that reminded Dean of a ripe plum. He was wearing the black beanie that Dean gave him last night, pulled down the back of his neck and over his forehead – he didn't take it off even to go to bed - and an over-sized black hoodie that had once been Dean's, before he hit his growth spurt. He huddled in it, seeming far smaller than he had any right to seem, and basically looking like the most depressing thing Dean had ever seen.

"'m okay," Sam mumbled, eyes turning back to his cereal. He used a finger to push the spilled bit of milk around on the tabletop, making patterns in it before he wiped it up with his sleeve.

"How's your face feel?" This was hard. Much harder than their usual post-hunt injury checks, because this wasn't post-hunt. This was post-whatthefuckjusthappened?

Sam kind of shrugged, this half-hearted, one-shouldered thing, like he didn't know or care and couldn't find the energy to figure it out. Dean wondered what John was doing now, if he was sitting at the table at the motel across town, hungover and dejected in the same position as Sam. John, who had never raised more than his voice towards either of them before now, no matter how angry.

Dean cleared his throat, "Did he... are you hurt anywhere else?"

He should have asked last night, but his mind had been blanking on anything other than the possibility of leaving Dad forever. It was so... final.

He thought Sam was going to shrug again, the kid started to, but then seemed to change his mind and pushed back the sleeves of his hoodie, extending his arms across the table so Dean could see the bruises around his wrists.

Gently, Dean picked up one of Sam's hands, then the other, turning them to get a thorough look at the damage. The bruises didn't go all the way round, one wrist only had a small-ish mark on the top, but they were dark grey and hideously shaped like John's fingers, pressed into Sammy's skin.

"I didn't mean to make him so mad," Sam said, eyes on his wrists. His voice still sounded dull, stunned out of emotion. He looked at his wrists in a way that made Dean think that the kid couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. Dean knew the feeling.

He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. Of course Sammy would take the burden of guilt on himself. "Sam, it wasn't... you didn't _do_ anything to..." He broke off, struggling to find the right words to explain, but he didn't understand himself. "Dad was drunk." He decided to stick with what he did know. "This isn't your fault."

"Shoulda kept my mouth shut," Sam mumbled, pulling his arms back and tucking his hands into his sleeves. "Shoulda learnt the exorcism."

It was almost like he was talking to himself, refusing eye contact, off in his head trying to figure out how and what and why.

Of course, Dean was thinking along the same track, mainly _what_. What was he going to do now? He left with sixty bucks in his pocket, a wallet with a couple fake I.D.s and one credit card, their phones, a bag of clothes and a traumatized kid. What was he meant to do with that?

"Sammy." He shook his head. "Jesus, Sam, _this_-" he waved a hand vaguely at his brother, "-is not fucking acceptable. No matter what you did. This wasn't _you_. It was Dad. Mom's anniversary makes him..."

It had never made him do this before. Sam nodded anyway, as if he understood.

They sat for a moment in silence, aside from the sound of Sam's spoon scraping back and forth against the bottom of his bowl. He hadn't taken a single bite, as far as Dean could tell.

Eventually, Sam took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. He raised a hand as if to brush hair out of his eyes, then stopped and let his hand fall back to his lap. He dropped his spoon in his bowl with a clatter and a soggy squish, and pushed it away.

"I'm going to have a shower," he mumbled, pushing himself up in sudden decision.

"There's heaps of hot water," Dean offered, like that was something that could make up for all the shitty things that had happened. Sam didn't offer anything in reply, just riffled through the duffel bag until he found a change of clean clothes and then disappeared into the bathroom.

Dean sat at the table and wished that the running water was loud enough to smother the sound of his kid brother's sobs.

XXX

After an aimless day of fuzzy motel TV, gas station snacks and silence, Sam fell asleep and Dean retreated to the bathroom to check is phone.

Tonight's message was so different from this mornings that it was nearly hard to believe that they were both from the same person. John was intoxicated beyond a shadow of a doubt, his voice mail loud and angry. Dean had expected it, once he'd seen that the call time was marked as a quarter past eight but it was still a shock to hear his father suddenly roar out of the phone.

He sat down on the side of the tub, legs feeling kind of weak as the gravity of everything sunk in a little bit more, as he imagined his father pacing up and down, flailing his arms to emphasize his point to an empty room.

'_He doesn't understand! This is more important than Halloween parties! This is_ Mary – _my Mary... he doesn't even know her! Dean, you know. You_ know, _Dean. It's dangerous, Sam needs to be prepared. I only ever try to keep you boys safe. Don't I keep you safe? ...need to keep you safe. This,_ this_, is a lesson. If he_ listened_, if he trained like he's supposed to, this wouldn't have __happened! I didn't want it to happen! Dean, Dean, you_ know..."

Dean didn't know. He didn't know what he was supposed to know, or what he was going to do or how he was going to make this better. He just knew that his father was wasted and he couldn't bring Sam back to that.

He sighed, pressing the button to delete the message, making a mental note to delete any on Sam's cell too. Tomorrow morning there would probably be another voice mail, another hungover message from a man who would swear he was sorry and promise to do better.

But Dean could only trust him as far as his next drink, and that wasn't far enough.

**END**


	5. Chapter 5

**These Broken Shards**

A/N: Yet another installment in the Whiskey 'verse, which was never intended to be a 'verse, but I couldn't just leave them where they were in Hangover, right?

XXX

"What if Dad_ is_ here? He'd know that we'd come."

Dean turned to his younger brother. Sam's arms were folded across his chest, feet shuffling restlessly as he scanned the scrapyard suspiciously before turning to the door to eye it as well.

"He's not," Dean assured him. "We would've seen him by now."

The petrol tank had run dry well before Bobby's place came into sight, leaving a stealthy walk through the yard as their only option, not that Dean needed another one. The last thing he wanted was to pull up and find that Dad had beaten them here, and keeping an eye on the place until they were sure it was just Bobby had always been his plan.

Sam shrugged, too anxious to be convinced, and looked down at the ground. Dean eyed him critically, part frustration and part sympathy. Sam had dawdled all the way here and he hadn't said anything but Dean was sure it was about Bobby and what had happened the last time the kid went up against a father figure, even if he had tentatively agreed that this was a good idea when Dean first brought it up. He seemed to become less and less certain the closer they got and now that they were standing on Bobby's porch, he looked ready to bolt. Dean understood but if they couldn't trust Bobby then there was no one left. And Dean really needed there to be someone left.

He can't blame Sam for being rattled though, not when he still feels pretty shaky himself, and not when the poor kid's standing there with his eye still deep purple down to the cheekbone, mottled green spreading over the bridge of his nose and to his eyebrow, and the beanie pulled over his head to hide the stubble of his hair. It made Dean's stomach knot up every time he looked at Sam. Maybe if he had been there...

But he hadn't been, and now they were standing on Bobby's porch with a maxed out credit card and nothing but chump change in his pocket.

The door in front of them opened, just as Dean was raising his hand to knock, and Bobby appeared, looking the same as always, with his flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows and a truckers cap on his head. Dean saw his eyebrows rise as his sharp eyes skimmed over Dean and turned to Sam, taking in the black eye, before settling his gaze back on the elder brother.

"What the hell took you boys so long?" he demanded.

Dean blinked.

"I've had your Daddy on the phone, ranting and raving, and I'm sure I don't have to tell you that it's hard to get any sense outta him when he's off his head but I managed to figure out that he'd done something stupid and you two had packed up and left." Bobby squinted a glare at Dean. "That was two days ago and none of you damn Winchesters seem to know how to pick up a phone. You trying to give me a heart attack?"

"The battery-" Dean started, because in his rush to leave he'd forgotten to snag his charger, or Sam's, though as far as the kid knew, his phone was still at the motel they had shared with Dad.

"Oh, never mind." Bobby waved him off gruffly. "Get your butts in here before you let all the heat out."

It was reassuring to be in Bobby's presence, Dean thought as he stepped into the hallway, followed by Sam, who stuck close to his heels, slightly behind him, like the kid didn't sense the safety he did. Which was fair enough. Dad was supposed to be safe, after all.

"You boys hungry?" Bobby asked, looking them up and down as they arrived in the kitchen.

Dean had to think about it. The day was fading into evening and they'd only snacked on road trip food since morning. He hadn't had much of an appetite even for that but now that he had time to consider it, and didn't have to worry about stealing it, he realized that hunger was starting to squirm in his stomach. Even so, food didn't really seem all that appealing, it was just his body reminding him that it needed fuel. What he really wanted was to sleep, take a breath, stop thinking so much. It was there in Bobby's kitchen that Dean realized just how stressed out he had been since Dad... he could still hardly comprehend what Dad had done. His whole life he'd been hearing the mantra "Look after Sammy" and what did Dad do? Fucking smacked the kid hard enough to brutally blacken his eye and left bruises on his wrists where he'd held Sam down and tried to turn him into a good little soldier by cutting his hair off.

"Sit. I've got leftovers." Bobby gestured to the kitchen table before turning to rustle through the fridge. "Bet you two have been eating junk," he muttered in what seemed to be fond disapproval.

Dean didn't say anything because he was right, of course, and then Bobby pulled out a huge block of lasagna and set about reheating it, and Dean couldn't speak for a whole different reason. Bobby really had been expecting them; lasagna had been a favourite dish since Bobby first made it for them when he was twelve and Sam was eight and Dad had left them at the scrap yard for a week because they both had the flu. Judging by the two slices missing, Bobby had made it for them the day Dad had called and told him they'd left.

The lump in Dean's throat grew as he thought of Bobby eating the lasagna alone, worrying about them, waiting for them. He bet his phone was full of missed calls, and he felt a sudden need to apologize for not coming straight here – he should have, he realized that as soon as he managed to start thinking straight again, which had admittedly taken too long – but it would surely be met with a gruff brushing off. What's done is done and they're here now, at least.

"Well," Bobby said finally, breaking the heavy silence that had settled over the kitchen as he turned back to face them. "I'm pretty sure I got the gist of what happened. Either of you want to fill me in on the details?"

Sam shrunk as Bobby's gaze swept over him, pulling his hands into his sleeves and staring down at the table. Bobby looked to Dean instead.

"Dad just... went crazy." Dean shook his head in disgust. "Over a stupid exorcism."

"An exorcism?" Bobby repeated, eyebrows pulled together in a frown under the brim of his cap, his worn face creased with concern.

"It wasn't the exorcism. It was me," Sam said quietly, still refusing to look up. "It was because I don't listen to orders and I suck at being a hunter."

"You don't suck," Dean responded indignantly, because that just wasn't true, Sam was an awesome hunter. The problem was that Dad always compared him to Dean, always pushing him harder, expecting him to do better, despite the fact that Dean had an extra four years of training behind him. Personally, Dean thought that Sam might even be better at some things than he was at 14. Hell, the kid could almost beat him in hand-to-hand combat, despite the size difference, and of course, Sammy outshone him with his research skills. Maybe Sam didn't always jump to obey orders like Dean did, but he didn't deserve this.

"Your brother's right, Sam," Bobby agreed. "You're a damn good hunter for a kid your age and if John can't see that then shame on him."

Sam shrunk further into his hoodie, ducking his head so low that Dean could see tiny prickles of hair escaping the beanie at the nape of his neck. "I don't take orders though. None of this would have happened if I'd just listened."

"Seems to me like none of this would have happened if John hadn't been half a bottle down," Bobby said firmly. "It's not your fault, kid. Doesn't matter what you did or didn't do, your Daddy's got no right to lay his hands on you."

Sam sighed, as if Bobby and Dean just didn't get it. "I'm not hungry. Can I go to bed?"

Frowning, Bobby gave him a searching look but nodded when it became clear that Sam wouldn't be offering anything else. "Sure. Your room's all ready for you."

Sam slid out of his seat with a barely audible "thanks" and disappeared down the hall. Bobby watched him go, one hand raised to rub his beard thoughtfully.

"I'm guessing there's more to this story than one punch," he said when Sam's footsteps had faded, leveling Dean with a stare that ordered details. "Something to do with Sam's hair?"

"What hair?" Dean muttered bitterly.

Bobby nodded. "John cut it?" he guessed.

"Shaved it," Dean corrected. "Right down to the scalp."

Bobby winced. "Over an exorcism?"

"And a Halloween party. Sam wanted to go but Dad said no." The table wobbled as Dean propped his elbows on it and rubbed his hands down his face. "I don't know how it happened. I wasn't there, and all Sammy says is that it was his fault, but you saw him, Bobby, he didn't deserve that, no matter what he did."

"No arguments here," Bobby said grimly. He pulled up a chair and sat, squinting at Dean. "What about you? How're you doing with all this?"

Dean's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Me? I'm fine. Dad didn't touch me. It's Sammy I'm worried about."

Bobby leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. "Way I see it, Sam's not the only one who's had a shock. You walked in on a nasty situation and had to deal with it. I'm sure it wasn't easy to make the decision to leave."

It took a moment for Dean to figure out what was bugging him about Bobby's statement. Leaving had been hard, of course it had, after being Dad's second in command for so long, but the problem was the insinuation that lay under the words, that Dean might have decided to stay.

He recoiled, indignant anger building in his chest. "Bobby, if you think I even considered any other option, then you don't know me at all."

"That ain't what I meant, ya idjit," Bobby shook his head. "I know your brother's your first priority. I'm just saying that you've had a hard time of it too, and I want to know how you're doing."

Dean scrubbed his hands down his face again, pressing the heels of his palms into his exhausted eyes for a moment. He'd been sleeping about as well as Sam lately, which was barely and the few moments he caught were filled with nightmares. It struck him as odd that he'd spent years hunting monsters and hardly ever lost sleep over it, but walking in on Dad in the aftermath of his drunken rage was somehow imprinted on him forever.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "I can hardly think straight." It felt like an understatement. He kept switching from betrayal and anger at his father to sudden, heart-stopping anxiety at being without his guidance. Worrying about Sam was his only constant. "How could he do that, Bobby? All these years, he's told me to look after Sam and then..."

Bobby shook his head, clearly at a loss. "Alcohol and grief will ruin a man. Have you talked to him?"

"He left some voice-mails before my battery died but I didn't answer them. He's not even sorry." Wait, that was wrong. "Well, he's only sorry when he's sober. When he's drunk, he just goes on about how Sam needs to shape up and that he had to do it." His voice was heavy with disgust. "He's still drinking, after what he did."

"Man's a fool," Bobby agreed.

XXX

From Bobby's kitchen window, Dean watched Sam cross the junkyard, his arms wrapped around himself to ward off the chill his thin hoodie couldn't. Rumsfeld wandered beside him, the dog's usual playfulness subdued by Sammy's obvious misery.

Dean chewed on his thumb nail. Another few steps and he'd lose Sam in the maze of old cars, and he wasn't so sure he was ready to let the kid out of his sight just yet. He'd just made the decision to follow when Bobby spoke up from behind him.

"Let the boy have some space, Dean. If he didn't want it, he wouldn't be out there."

Dean hesitated, unsure, and Sam's slight frame vanished behind a stack of burnt-out shells. He turned to Bobby unhappily. "He hasn't even had breakfast," he said lamely, half-hoping for an excuse to chase Sam down.

Bobby just shrugged and headed for the coffee Dean had brewed. "He'll be in when he's ready."

"I guess," Dean muttered, sitting down at the table, gratefully accepting the mug of coffee that was placed before him.

"You boys sleep okay?" Bobby asked as he settled into the seat across from Dean with his own mug.

Dean huffed a bitter laugh. "Barely slept at all. Sam got less than me, I think. Every time I woke up, he was awake, pretending he wasn't." One of those times, he thought Sam might have been crying but there was no response when Dean whispered his name, so Dean had let him be. He didn't know what else to do.

"He'll be alright, Dean," Bobby said confidently. "So will you."

"Sam thinks Dad will come looking for us," Dean blurted out, dropping his eyes to his coffee so Bobby wouldn't see the mess of emotions within. He didn't want John to find them but he didn't want his father to just leave them either... He didn't know what he wanted.

"I'm sure he will," Bobby said grimly. "But don't you worry; I can handle your old man."

Dean sighed. Maybe they should have just stayed away, instead of dumping their problems on Bobby. It was hardly fair. And Dean could probably work something out...

Apparently sensing Dean's thoughts, Bobby set his coffee down and leaned forward. "You know you boys can stay here as long as you need to, right? Don't go stressing yourself out trying to make plans."

Dean smiled weakly. "Thanks, Bobby, but we can't exactly stay here forever."

Bobby narrowed his eyes. "And why not?"

_Why not?_ Dean drew back, stunned, and frowned at Bobby. "Well, 'cause it's your house and we don't have any money or... or anything, and I swear Sammy grows out of his clothes every other week and there's his education to think about, which means buying new books and..." He was babbling now. "You don't really want us living here forever? We're not your responsibility."

Bobby drained the last of his coffee before answering. A shadow had come over his face and when he spoke, his voice was strained. "Once, a long time ago now, I planned on raising children here, turning this house into a home. Life has a way of messing up your plans though." The shadow had passed when Bobby looked up, replaced by determination and sincerity. "I've known you and Sam since you were knee-high. You boys are the closest thing I have to family. Hell, you are family, so if you want to stay, there's always room for you two here."

Whatever dark memories lurked behind his words were lost on Dean as relief allowed him to sit up a little straighter. He hadn't dared to ask Bobby if they could stay indefinitely. It was too much, and he hadn't been ready to deal with the anxiety a 'no' would have brought.

"Bobby..." he started, struggling to find the right words to express how much this meant. There weren't any.

The chair squeaked against the lino as Bobby got to his feet, clapping a hand on Dean's shoulder on his way to the sink, a silent 'you're welcome'.

"Why don't you go find your brother and I'll get some breakfast ready," Bobby suggested. Dean got the feeling that Bobby wanted a moment alone to think about the plans life had messed up for him, which was really the least Dean could do after such a generous offer.

Tracking down Sam in the maze of cars took some time, even though Dean knew all his hiding spots. He felt a pang of nostalgia for all the hours they'd spent playing hide and seek here when they were young and everything wasn't as fucked up as it was now. He checked the likely places one by one and found Sam in the spot furthest from the house, a small space between two cars, a third car stacked sideways on top of the two like a roof.

Sam didn't acknowledge Dean as he edged his way in to sit on the ground beside Sam. Rumsfeld was sitting attentively at Sam's other side, guarding the teenager as he huddled in the tight gap. His knees were pulled up to his chest, one arm wrapped loosely around his legs, the other slung over Rumsfeld's neck, fingers absentmindedly stroking the dark fur under the dog's chin. Dean swore that the misery rolling off of the kid was so strong he could taste it, sour and thick.

"Hey, kiddo." Dean was almost too big to fit in here now. He mirrored Sam's position through necessity, feeling the cool metal pressed firmly against his back, the tips of his toes nudging the front wheel of the car before him. "Bobby's making breakfast."

Sam shrugged apathetically. "I'm not really hungry."

"You must be by now. You didn't eat anything last night."

Sam shrugged again. Dean was getting no where by ignoring the issue so he decided he may as well get to the point.

"Bobby said we could stay as long as we want," he revealed. "Forever, even."

Now Sam looked at him, his expression unreadable as he seemed to search Dean's face for something. "Is that what you want?"

Dean bit his lip to stop himself from making a knee-jerk platitude, which Sam would no doubt discard as insincere. The truth was, Dean couldn't imagine life without Dad, but he only had to look at Sam's swollen, bruised eye – there was a little more green edging the purple today – and the beanie Sam refused to take off to know his answer.

"I want you to be safe."

Sam dropped his eyes. There was a hole in the knee of his jeans and he picked at one of the loose threads. "Even if it means leaving Dad?"

"Even if it means leaving Dad," Dean confirmed with conviction. "What he did..." He grit his teeth against the fresh flow of anger and betrayal, remembering the devastation in Sam's eyes that hadn't completely gone away, his father's drunken conviction that he'd done the right thing. There would be no going back, no forgiveness on his part, unless Sam wanted it. "You're my number one priority, Sammy."

Inexplicably, his assurances seemed to make Sam more upset. He turned away from Dean to pet Rumsfeld but not before Dean saw the flash of misery cross his face.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he asked, frowning in confusion. He tried to lean forward to get a read on the kid's emotions but there wasn't room and Sam didn't turn back.

"I've ruined everything," Sam said, his breath hitching like he was about to cry.

Dean drew back, aghast. "What are you talking about? You didn't ruin anything."

Sam shook his head in denial. "I should've learned the exorcism. None of this would have happened if I just followed orders." Rumsfeld whined and nudged Sam's shoulder, clearly upset by Sam's distress. "I heard what Dad said, He was right, I could get you killed by not listening. I messed up."

"Sammy, no-"

"You weren't there," Sam cut him off flatly. "I was being a brat so he punished me. I got what I deserved."

For a moment, Dean was too stunned to argue, appalled by Sam's words. Then the rage began to build in his chest, righteous anger at his father building up like molten lava, searing and violent. How dare he make Sam feel responsible for this, this _assault_?

"Shut the hell up," he found himself hissing at Sam, grabbing a shoulder and tugging the teenager around to face him. Sam gasped in surprise and even Rumsfeld let out a startled bark. "You listen to me, Sam. Punishment is extra training or running laps or, I don't know, being grounded. It's not _this_ and you didn't deserve it, no matter what you did or what Dad said. He's the one who ruined everything, okay? Not you. This wasn't your fault."

"But I-"

"But fucking nothing, Sam," Dean ground out.

Silence twisted around the hiding place, filling all the empty spaces as Sam considered Dean's words. He still looked far too close to tears for Dean's liking, his face flushed where the bruises didn't obscure his complexion, but at least he wasn't automatically disregarding the reassurances like he had so far.

"Did Bobby really say we could stay forever?" he asked finally, his voice soft and uncertain.

"He really did," Dean said.

Sam twisted the loose thread around his finger. "And you really want to stay with me and not go back to Dad?"

"I really do." Dean poured every ounce of conviction he had into the statement.

Sam looked up at him, unsure, faltering. He wanted to believe, Dean could see it, but he also saw guilt and doubt. It was crushing. The kid was Dean's everything and he couldn't even see it. Silently, Dean vowed that he would change that. Maybe it wouldn't happen overnight but, with time, Sam would see that Dean was going to stick by him. One day, Sam would figure it out.

"I'm also _really_ hungry, so how about we go sample Bobby's cooking?" he asked, desperately hoping that Sam wouldn't turn him down. He kind of couldn't bare the thought of the kid staying out here alone any longer, letting his thoughts run away to come to horrible conclusions. "I bet Rumsfeld's hungry too," he added, in case Sam needed more convincing.

"I guess," Sam said hesitantly, scratching behind Rumsfeld's ears.

"It'll be okay, Sam," Dean promised, feeling the need for one more reassurance as he slipped out from between the cars, extending a hand to Sam. It was unnecessary but Sam took it anyway, which Dean chose to see as a good thing, as a little trust and confidence in him.

"I hope so," Sam said quietly as he straightened up, wrapping his arms around himself against the cold, or maybe just because.

Dean took a chance, risking rejection, and slung an arm over Sam's shoulders as they headed towards the house, Rumsfeld bounding along beside them. Sam stiffened for a moment, his breath catching in his throat, before he relaxed, leaning into the touch, just like always.

A lot of things had changed but, Dean was sure, some things never would.

**END**


End file.
